Our Strange Duet
by Vytina
Summary: Of all the duets, theirs is the strangest.


**A/N: I can't believe how long this has taken, but I do believe I'm quite pleased with the result. This is an idea that I had for quite some time, and with the encouragement of dear friend michellemybelle25, I finally put it down to paper...or computer screen, as it is.**

**While this story does incorporate the famous duet "Past the Point of No Return" from _Phantom_, there were two other musical inspirations that helped me write this story. The first is "Dangerous Game" from Frank Wildhorn's _Jekyll & Hyde_, and the second is "Love Song for a Vampire" from the film "Bram Stoker's Dracula". **

**I also want to stress that this story is a ONE-SHOT. I will NOT be continuing it with additional chapters simply because I don't feel it merits anything more. If you disagree, please feel free to message me or simply make mention of your feelings in your review. Thank you!**

**Title: Our Strange Duet**

**Summary: Of all the duets, theirs is the strangest.**

**Character Pairing: Erik x Christine Daae**

**Rating: M for sexual content**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters associated with _The Phantom of the Opera_. I own only the idea for this story.**

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><p>"<em>Love is often gentle, desire always a rage." <em>

_~ Mignon McLaughlin_

_The devil's lair_...that's what they were starting to call the catacombs. The home of a monster, a demon...a murderer. Only a fool would dare venture down into this pit of Hell, most especially alone and without any form of protection.

The fool perhaps she was...the fool who dared to tempt the devil in his own lair. The fool who would be safer running as far from these icy tombs as possible, back into the arms of her promised husband and away from the infamous Phantom himself. What madness had stolen away her better sense of judgment and left such a foolhardy child in its wake?

Christine was neither willing to nor prepared to answer her own question. In fact, she was quite content to examine neither her intentions nor motives as she carefully moved down the slick rocks that formulated a lesser-traveled path into the catacombs. The air grew thick and cold with each step she took, the chill soaking through her skirts and down into the very marrow of her bones. The silk of her dressing gown was hardly enough to quell the icy sensation, and she could hardly believe she had once been led down this very path, wearing little more than she presently was, and never experienced this frightful decline in temperature. Perhaps it had been the heat inspired by the flaming torch that had led the way. Perhaps it had been some semblance of warmth drifting downward from the warmer months before winter's chill had made itself present.

Or...perhaps it had been the warmth that had spread through her veins and inflamed her senses beyond the ability to comprehend anything other than the golden voice of her teacher. A voice that even now she could hear from the far reaches of her memory. A voice that she should have banished from her thoughts and left in the dark shadows of the past, not carried with her as she looked towards what, by all accounts, would be a future filled with light.

And yet, was it not this very voice that was drawing her downward in this god-forsaken lair once more? That voice which inspired all manner of unholy thoughts and actions to manifest within her heart and mind, festering and steadily corrupting what should be a soul of purity and innocence. A soul fit for none other than the future wife of a Vicomte, not the mistress of a murdering phantom.

Christine brought her arms tightly about her waist, trembling violently in the cold. Her knees broke from under her, and she crumpled to the wet floor. Neither the skirts of her dressing gown nor her dress could protect her from the resulting chill, and her quivering limbs shook frantically under the introduction of yet another source of cold. Even the tears formulating upon her eyelashes were cold and heavy, clinging to fragile skin like lead. She would hardly be surprised if her skin were to break and crack under the weight of a single fallen tear.

Heavy and overbearing, just like the guilt weighing so predominantly within the very core of her heart. A guilt she both despised and endured all the same, perhaps out of some masochistic need to forever remind herself of what she had done...and why she was here.

Her shaking hand extended to the door, a secret entrance that none had ever discovered, likely because none had ever dared venture down here before, but more so because it was a door that had been constructed with the sole purpose of being invisible. Only the two people who would ever search for it could find it, and as she pressed her ear to the hidden frame, she could hear music drifting forward from within. Only two people would ever search for this door, and it was this door that separated them now. Only a door...and what seemed a lifetime of mistakes and injuries that could never be rectified.

She drew the door open carefully, not yet willing to inform Erik of her presence. Perhaps if he was not aware of her foolish descent to his home, she would still have time to follow common sense and flee.

For a long moment, she stood upon the threshold, quite literally one foot inside and one foot out of the so-called devil's lair. Fear ran cold through her veins, chilling her far more than the catacombs ever had. She was a fool indeed...oh God, why had she come here?

Music abruptly filled the entire room, the sharp and resonating notes from _Don Juan Triumphant_, and with the notes came the answer she didn't want to face.

The music seared her very blood, shattering the weight of winter's chill and leaving a consuming heat that disoriented her for a long moment. This was not the first time she'd been taken by such a phenomenon, and she inwardly cursed herself for this moment of weakness. She should have known better—she _did_ know better! Coming here wasn't going to rid her of this strange infatuation Erik's music had left permanently branded upon her mind...it was only making it worse. Why had she ever been foolish enough to think that one last confrontation would free her mind and soul?

She would not allow herself to admit that, in reality, that was not why she was here. The unfortunate reality of her intentions was best left to the quiet secrecy of her heart.

Her movements into the house were slow, each weighed heavily with trepidation. The music only grew louder and stronger against her ears with each step. Each movement brought her closer to the unfortunate spell that musical notes, composed by his hands alone, happily inflicted upon a heart that was, despite her attempts to the contrary, utterly vulnerable to such an assault.

Finally, she arrived at the music room, from where the music originated, and sure enough he was there. Dressed as immaculate and pristine as ever, his long fingers moving with deliberate execution across ivory keys—she'd never realized how the color of his organ keys was only a shade darker than that of his own flesh—and his mask set in place. From the doorway, her presence protected by the echo of his music, she stood and watched him with a curiosity not unlike that she'd once possessed six months earlier—a lifetime ago it seemed. For all else that he was, to observe him in the throes of his music was a sight unlike any she'd ever witnessed. His figure hunched slightly over the keys. Fingers moving fast and without error as he brought his music to life. Head tilted back slightly as though he were fully immersing himself in the music. Drowning himself in it.

Perhaps, she added as a bitter afterthought, he was.

Her ears recognized the music right away, and it sent a jolt of terror, mingled with excitement, through her spine. The passionate duet from his opera, the one she was supposed to be preparing for right now instead of lingering at his door. A duet she was scripted to sing with easily the most repulsive man in the opera house—Piangi. A quiver of loathing coursed through her spine at the memory of past rehearsals. Memories of enduring large and clumsy hands more interested in exploring her body than performing the duet properly. Why had Erik ever cast Piangi as her Don Juan, the man she was meant to desire and crave with every fiber of her being? Was this his ultimate punishment then, to repulse her so thoroughly and leave her unable to properly perform the role?

She certainly knew she'd been doing a lackluster job at best over these last few days, and it had been with mixed feelings that she'd recognized the feel of Erik's eyes upon her, probably from the rafters. Wherever he'd been watching from, she knew he hadn't been pleased. How could he have been? _She_ had been disgusted with herself. Erik should have, by all rights, been nothing short of appalled to hear years of dedication and carefully-planned lessons go to waste like that.

Her ears became acutely aware of the silence, and her heart leaped hard and fast into her throat. Oh God...how long had she been without the cover of his music and not even noticed? More importantly, how long had his gleaming eyes been staring at her while she hovered in the doorway like a terrified child?

She lifted her head, though she wasn't aware of ever having lowered it, and found his gaze. The pierce of his eyes cut her clean to the core, more painful than the strike of a hand or the blow of a knife. She felt her legs buckle slightly and hastily gripped the door frame before Terror brought her down once again.

He stood from his pipe organ and approached on silent feet. Were she not looking at him, she would never have been able to hear him coming, and with each space closed between them, her mind screamed hysterical pleas for retreat. Privately, she knew all too well that he could easily catch her, but Fear offered no consideration for reality, preferring to urge her as far from this place as her weakened limbs could take her.

But there was another voice that rang stronger, not from her mind, but from her heart: Curiosity. An unfortunate curse and more frequently a plague upon her life than anything else. Yet still it called to her and she dared let herself listen to its pleas: remain here, and let herself learn the consequences. Naturally, Fear declared she would not survive such a course of action—not emotionally, at least—and perhaps it was not wrong to declare such things. She should have recalled that testing Erik's temper never had merciful consequences.

It made her all the more a fool for not abiding to the silent demands of common sense.

"So," Erik's voice made her shake with its forbidding tone, the voice of one barely keeping control over a potent rage—the kind of rage he'd displayed only weeks earlier at the Masquerade ball, when he'd ripped the Vicomte's ring from her throat and verbally invoked claim over both her voice and soul. Once more she had been branded the Opera Ghost's mistress, and it was that very title with which she'd been living ever since. Not even Raoul's reassuring whispers could ease away the cold reality of her life.

"The pretty princess has ventured into the monster's lair." His eyes were cold and unfeeling, lacking the warmth they had once possessed whenever she'd stood in his presence. She missed those days. Missed them more than perhaps she should. "Alone and unattended, Christine? Or is your gallant Vicomte waiting just outside with sword drawn, prepared to slay the beast and claim his beloved once and for all?" he fell silent, but before she could offer an answer, he continued, "Is he no longer content to wait and put a bullet in my heart? Would he be happier with my blood upon his sword instead?"

The chill that ran through her had absolutely nothing to do with the wintery feel of the catacombs, nor did it even have anything to do with Erik's tone. It took a long minute before she found her voice, and when she finally did, it was lacking the strength and determination for which she'd been hoping. "How...how did you know?"

He gave a cold, humorless chuckle, "Did you really think his heroic little plan would go unnoticed, Christine? He has been joyously announcing it to anyone who will listen—a _deaf man_ could know of his plans!" the acidic bite to his tone made her visibly flinch, and once more she felt the need to flee his temper, knowing the worst of it was lying just beneath the surface, fully prepared to strike without a moment's warning.

"Your lover believes I am unaware of his intentions to destroy me, Christine..." Erik leaned slightly closer, "What fool does he take me for? Or did he believe it didn't matter if I knew or not, just so long as the pretty prize plays her part and lures the Phantom to his death?"

Her body stiffened, and Guilt made its presence known as it struck without remorse upon her already-battered heart. Guilt had been one source of persuasion to venture where only fools would dare tread. Guilt had inspired her to flee better sense and warn him of the dangers, to keep him away from the stage before she would have to endure the stain of his blood upon her hands.

But Guilt was not alone in its steady consumption of her heart and soul. It had an ally, one more potent and consuming than even the strongest form of Guilt could ever be. And once more, she dared not face it. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

Her change in demeanor had not escaped him, and when he cupped her face in hand and forcefully brought her eyes to meet his, she could see a horrid gleam in his eyes—cruel satisfaction. Vindictive delight. Nothing that reminded her of the angel from her youth.

"Ah," he breathed, "so that is why you've come then? To play your well-rehearsed role as the victim once more, offering yourself to the monster to spare your Vicomte?" he studied her with scrutinizing eyes that made her shiver, for reasons better left unexplored, "Or are you here to assuage your own sense of guilt and warn me before your siren voice leads me to Death's waiting grasp?"

Once more, he didn't wait for her answer. "Whatever your intentions, you have no reason to be here, Christine." He stepped away from her and turned back towards his organ. "I've no need for your pity nor your contrived sense of mercy. Let your beloved's hand take my life. I will perish with the satisfaction of knowing he can no longer curse my memory as a murderer when he is fully prepared to do the same, just to claim you for his own."

"Raoul loves me..." she protested, but it was weak and half-hearted at best. Inadvertently or purposefully, Erik had just offered the one point that had been the inspiration for such a driving guilt all along. Raoul, for all his good intentions and kind words and luxurious promises, was ready to do the very thing for which he readily cursed Erik: murder.

"He loves the idea of you as his wife." Erik returned with chilled tones that cut again at her heart, "You cannot expect me to believe that, in spite of your blatant naivety, you have not yet grasped the reality of this little ploy. Kill the monster and the princess is his to claim once and for all, without competition or any further obstacles to overcome ever again. A noble victory worthy of his noble blood."

Christine clenched her hands into fists, willing for some fragment of courage that might yet remain within her. "And so this was your plan all along then? To allow me to suffer with the guilt and fear of what would happen on that stage? To be plagued every waking moment with the fear of having your blood on my hands?"

"Your guilt is your own." He spoke with such indifference that it grated her temper from its dormancy. How dare he just act as though he didn't care what happened to him, or what might happen to her? Had he not even considered the possibility of a stray bullet striking her as well? "I have never asked you to care for my life or well-being."

"And clearly," she said, voice gaining some strength in the presence of awakened anger, "you have no intentions of caring for mine. A bullet meant for your heart could easily pierce _mine_ instead, Erik...have you even bothered to consider that?"

He kept his back to her so she would not catch the slight grimace that creased his features—concern...and dread. It was much easier to hate her and consequently ease away any fear of a poorly-aimed bullet stealing her life instead of his, but Hate was not yet strong enough to quell the softer blade of Love that still held purchase within his heart. Her life another mar left upon his memory? It was unthinkable.

Silently though, he felt a vicious swell of perverse satisfaction. How high and mighty would the Vicomte be upon watching the life drain from his beloved prize, killed by his own order after he'd willingly placed her so close to his intended target? The boy may think himself better than the murdering Opera Ghost, but how easily he forgot the possible consequences of his own reckless actions—putting Christine nearly as much in the line of a bullet as the Phantom. He was no better than those he dared to condemn.

Her small hand suddenly laid upon his shoulder, and he shook with a tremendous quiver at such an innocent touch. It scalded him through clothes and skin as though she had pierced him with a flame. "_Ange_?"

_Angel_...the title was bitterly ironic. _Devil_ was the better term, more suitable for one such as he. Or perhaps _monster_...that was one of the titles the Vicomte had given her to call him that night, after all. Why was she not resorting to a title that she had clearly accepted without question?

"Erik," he heard her step forward, leaving only inches between them—so close, too close, "please..."

"Please _what_?" he felt an unbidden sting of disappointment when his venomous tone prompted her to step back, yet of course it was more fitting for her to fear his presence than to take comfort in it, "What pleas do you have for me now, Christine? Spare the life of your beloved Vicomte? Remain away from the stage tomorrow night and lock myself away in the darkness, lest I allow myself to forget what I am to you and risk all just for one last moment with you? Pray tell, _please what_?"

_Look at me_. That had been her initial request, but his words—and the cold tone in which they were offered—proved once more to be a strike of flint upon the smoldering flame of her anger and frustration. Granted, she would have done well to not entertain such emotions; it was improper for a future Vicomtess, and it was perhaps better to remain the innocent little doll without incident. But Erik had always been very talented at bringing out the hidden darkness even from the farthest reaches of her soul, had he not? The thought that he alone could so effectively invite her temper was hardly surprising.

And yet Anger, as she knew and futilely tried to ignore, was not the only sin to tarnish her heart.

Her silence was apparently grating his nerves as well, and without warning he had turned around to face her again, eyes dark and smoldering with tormented rage. "I have grown weary of your little games, Christine." He hissed, "If you have no other purpose in life than to make mine miserable with your ceaseless punishment, at least have the _compassion_," he put a furious emphasis on the word, "to do so without infecting me with your presence. Leave me now before I choose to return one of your punishments in kind!"

"Punishment?" her voice broke under the quake of her growing fury, "Shall we talk of _your_ sense of punishment then?" common sense pleaded with her to resist the temptation and give way to anger, but it was useless. The dam was as good as shattered. "You cast me as the embodiment of temptation, a woman who knows what she wants—or should I say _who_ she wants, and is fully prepared to seduce the man she desires...and you make _Piangi_ the object of my desires?"

Erik's gaze narrowed and an unpleasant smirk curved the unmasked portion of his mouth. "Ah, the truth comes out." he said with a mocking bout of applause. "As least now I have an explanation for your pathetic performance these last few days...but of course, you should have known better, Christine." he added with a far more serious expression. "You were trained as an actress, capable of feigning emotion even when you feel nothing of the sort. You are cast as one who desires Piangi, and you are expected to perform as such."

Her jaw tightened in unison with her curled fists, "You expect much," her voice was low and tight, nearly shaking, "considering you have not assumed your role as my teacher and taught me how to perform in accordance with your desires."

He felt an involuntary shiver run through him at the very images stirred by such a thought. Enacting that duet with Christine, just the two of them without any onlookers—without any Vicomtes—to interfere? Could there be any greater pleasure offered to him?

Pleasure...or punishment, he thought to himself with no small bitterness. Another game of make believe; that's all it would be. Another cruel dream from which he would be forced to awaken alone, with only bittersweet memories to call his own. Was this her ultimate purpose then? Was her foolish little venture down to his home for no other purpose than to remind him once again that, whether he stayed away or risked his life to sing with her one last time, she would not and could never be his?

"Clearly," he said coldly, "your use for me has run its course." With a purposeful stride he moved away from her, dismissing her with a careless gesture, "Leave me, Christine. Run along to your beloved's waiting arms...he surely will be missing you now."

Christine stood in silence, watching him open a distance between them that once more that offered freedom. She could turn and run...easily escape him and flee to the world above before he ever had a chance to catch her and recant his orders. It was Fear that called for her to run, leave this prison behind and return to her future of luxury and security. A future without Erik and his threats...or his music. A future without...any music at all.

Music...the very thing that had become the purpose of her existence, and all because of him. Erik's music offered a very different kind of security, one that Raoul could never hope to understand or offer her in return. Erik's music inspired her soul, inspired her voice...inspired her very _life_. To flee from him was to flee from herself.

And wasn't she tired of running? What good had running ever done her, especially as of late? She'd run from Erik's love to embrace Raoul's, and in the process turned her angelic confidant and teacher into a ruthless madman crippled by rage and anguish. She'd run from Erik's music to accept Raoul's ring, and sentenced herself to a future without the opera...without any trace of music at all. Her voice would wither and die in time, and with it the very essence of her soul.

A thought, unbidden and foolish at best, crept forth and quickly teased the back of her mind. He had accused her of not being able to properly perform the duet? What greater triumph than to prove right here and now that she could and would sing it just as well as he'd intended—better, even?

She shifted slightly, trying to find some sort of appropriate stance that would inspire and be fitting for Aminta's character. It was strange, and had he turned to look at her at that very moment, he would have been both amused and exasperated with her restless fidgeting. Nothing seemed appropriate—not the exaggerated pose she'd been ordered to assume during rehearsals, and certainly not the timid crouch she'd taken only moments ago. It was mildly infuriating, needing to find this character within herself and utterly failing.

In the wake of her silent debate, she took pause and noted her current stance: calm, composed, at ease. Perhaps it was simply being in this familiar place, even when her companion no longer behaved as he once had, or perhaps it was simply her body growing tired of this inane effort to force a pose upon itself, thus taking one without expressed permission. Either way...it was fitting.

Her shoulders rolled back slightly, eyes closing for the briefest of moments as she searched for the notes in her memory. It wasn't easy, and she was certain the first notes wouldn't be up to par, but there was no time like the present, before her refusal to leave sparked his anger yet again.

Christine opened her mouth, and Aminta's first notes left her throat with a clarity that surprised even her. In this place, her voice echoed with startling intensity and brought the volume to a new level, one that resonated against her ears and left her slightly shaken. But she was, as he had so kindly reminded her, an actress. Neither the unfamiliarity of her surroundings nor the forbidding presence of her teacher would shake her this time. If anything, there was a greater, more pressing need to excel now that she was right in front of him.

She watched with no small satisfaction as he turned to face her, not quick enough to disguise the look on his face. Awe. Intrigue. Satisfaction. And...a shiver ran through her veins as the dark gleam of Desire left its mark upon his unmarked features. Against all better sense of judgment, she longed for him to remove the mask and satisfy her curious wondering: did Desire leave its mark upon ravaged features just as clearly?

Her final note, the one calling her Don Juan forward, lingered with the subtlety of a gunshot, filling the room and leaving its mark upon the ears of both who listened. She felt absurdly pleased with herself, and privately smiled at the thought of seeing Carlotta's face had she overheard this performance, short-lived though it was. Erik's face alone was wrought with blatant approval, just as it had once been. Finally, some traces of her teacher, whom she had practically lived to please, were slowly drawing forward to the surface, nudging anger and suffering aside even if for only a moment.

A moment of peace settled between them, but just as suddenly as it had come, it disappeared. Erik's stance changed as he moved to the organ, hands already outstretched towards the keys, and it was barely a second later she realized what he was doing.

The first note struck her hard and fast, then a second and a third. Notes drawn out from his expert hands fell upon her ears, rendering her mind blank and her body numb as though lost in the trance of a supreme hypnotist. And was that not precisely what Erik was, in his own right? A genius capable of conceiving music the likes of which others could scarcely comprehend, and with it brought a mesmerizing power against which she was incapable of resistance.

He turned to face her, fingers still lingering over the keys, and suddenly the room was filled with the golden voice of an angel. A voice that hardly belonged inside a mortal man; a heavenly deity was far more appropriate to claim such ownership. Pity to remember once again that he was not, nor would he ever be, an angel.

Yet...was it not better this way? It was a sacrilege to love an angel, let alone to sing of such ravenous and hungering desires for an angel. But for a man...

Her eyes had closed at some point upon hearing his first note, and when she opened them, a mismatched gaze clouded with Desire's unmistakable presence met hers. Desire...an emotion encased in such potency that she could easily understand why she had run from it. Run from it and denied it without hesitation And yet...she was not convinced that, should he look into her eyes as deeply as she looked into his, he would not see Desire's claim upon her own heart and soul.

He drew closer to her, singing with far more purpose and deliberation than Piangi could have ever done. And she knew why: these words had no meaning for Piangi, nor for anyone else in the cast. These words were written by Erik's hand with the sole purpose of calling out to her and baring his heart and soul to her one last time. A final attempt to open her eyes and erase the fog of confusion and petty childhood dreams that, now, were paling against the brilliant glow of reality.

"_Now you are here with me—no second thoughts,_" his voice was little more than a breathed whisper, yet still held true to the required melody as his eyes bored down into hers, "_You've decided. Decided..._"

Decided...had she then? Were all her ulterior motives and intentions little more than another mask behind which she'd hidden her true purpose in making this journey? Had she come solely from her heart's urging, for her heart must have known long before her ever-protesting mind just what she wanted...what she had always wanted?

Was Desire, then, the ultimate persuasion that had dominated her heart and stolen all traces of common sense away?

His hand extended to her, and it was without much hesitation that she laid hers within his waiting hold. His skin was as cold as hers was warm, and she realized he had always worn gloves in her presence before now. Never before had she experienced what very likely was a natural chill to his skin...had he worn the gloves out of a secret desire to not frighten her with such a sensation? Or...was it because he hadn't considered himself worthy to touch her?

Already knowing the answer, Christine chose to push the question aside and allowed him to pull her forward, half-expecting him to draw her flush against his body and quickly surprised when he did not. Instead, he held her hand between both of his and traced the soft lines of her palm. She felt a shiver run through her spine that had nothing to do with disgust or fear. The power of his voice ringing in her ears did nothing to quell the blood running hot and fast through her body. If anything, it encouraged it...and the sheer feel of Desire burning through her veins frightened her far more than seeing his distorted face or enduring his temper ever had.

Abruptly, she was drawn forward and turned, his chest pressed firmly to her spine. A soft gasp escaped, but if he heard it, he didn't seem to mind—or perhaps he wasn't allowing himself to care at the moment. Likely, he regarded this as just another performance...one in which they could do as they pleased without fear of consequences. One in which he could reveal even the smallest taste of his desire and not know punishment for it.

His hands cradled her neck, the tenderness of his touch an almost perverse contradiction when she knew they were the same hands that had stolen lives, and could easily steal hers in return. One twist and snap of hands upon flesh and bone, and she would be dead.

It should have frightened her and brought sense back to the forefront of her thoughts, but instead she grew limp and relaxed against the touch, savoring the feel of chilled fingers against the smooth column of her throat. Tracing her veins. Caressing the line of her collarbone. Lips so close to her ear, singing those notes laced with the purest desire ever imagined. This was the power of his music, for there was never a single note created by those hands that wasn't steeped in Passion's all-consuming potency. It was this power from which she run...but now, she had placed herself willingly in its hold. His hold.

This was the real choice she had to make: to flee his desire and forsake music, for they were one in the same and she knew it would be forever impossible to ever hear a single note without hearing _him_ entwined within the melody, or accept the power and pleasure of his music. Of his heart. His soul.

A terrifying choice, and yet...had she not already made it?

The final note fell from his lips to tease her ears, and she was released from his hold. She felt his eyes upon her, trepidation in their every glance as though fearing her reaction to his bold advances. He feared yet another rejection. And she knew this one would be far more devastating should it fall now.

Her skin tingled from the feel of his hands and the ghosting touch of his lips upon her temple, but more importantly, she could still feel the lingering imprint of his mask where it had rested upon her curls. As she turned to face him, her eyes were for that stark white barrier, the last true wall between them. A wall that had been forever erected in their relationship, forever a reminder of why she had run in the first place...and what she had run from.

Terror lingered yet in the far reaches of her mind, but it was ignored and dismissed by the consuming fog left in the wake of his voice. Once again, her voice was stirred and inspired with renewed vigor, and with it Desire rose with brutal intensity, ready to manifest itself in her response. This time she didn't fight it.

Her pose was resumed without consideration or thought this time, calm elegance in her limbs. All traces of seduction were reserved for her face—specifically, her eyes. She knew he was already captured by her gaze just as she had been his, and this was the weapon she used to combat his assault. Her voice lifted once more with resonating intensity, but this time she observed it without fear. This was her voice, a tool crafted by his genius and careful teachings. It was the tool with which she would now mesmerize him just as he had so often done to her.

"_Now I am here with you—no second thoughts,_" she echoed his words back to him, eyes never breaking the connection with his, "_I've decided. Decided._"

This time, there was no doubt. She had decided, and it terrified her as much as it elated her.

Her voice grew stronger, thriving upon the infectious power of Desire from the darkness of her soul. A darkness he had inspired as much as she'd tried to contain. It had frightened her to think she was even capable of housing such consuming shadows of emotions when all others, herself included, believed her to be the simple chorus girl, nothing more and nothing less than the embodiment of innocence. How could they—how could even _she—_believe, even for a moment, that she was as much a passionate creature as her teacher?

And yet Innocence was her illusion. Passion and Desire, joined as one, were her reality.

Her stride brought her closer to him, one intention overwhelmingly clear to her heart and mind when all others seemed muddled or paling in significance. Her voice was the best distraction she could have offered, and it was clear from the look upon his face that he held no suspicions of what she intended to do. All the better to surprise him with, indeed.

The words of her song rang as true as could possibly be, demanding to know when they would cease with these meaningless games and finally lie as one. A criminal request from her lips, one that defied all sense of propriety and the responsibility she was expected to hold as another man's promised wife. And yet none of it mattered now. Nothing else existed here, even when it should have. She was here with him, and her decisions had been made—for better or for worse.

Her hand moved forward without warning, fingers fitting around the edges of his mask with surprising precision, and the barrier was ripped away.

What had previously been awe and desire was rapidly replaced by rage and overwhelming shame. Yet another game indeed! Entrancing him with her voice like the wicked siren she was, only to invoke the cruelest sense of betrayal upon him once again. Of course, the first glimpse of his malformed face was not enough to satisfy her; now she must wound him yet again, ripping away the one protection he had against her inevitable disgust and horror to leave distortion on display for her to observe as all others did: terror and rejection of the devil's curse.

He made to seize his mask back, but she was quicker on her feet, moving out of his reach with the mask still held in her hands. Her behavior surprised him, but it was her next course of action that rendered him frozen with shock and confusion. She kept singing.

Her voice was as clear as ever, carrying his music upon each breath with breathtaking perfection—not even he knew she was capable of such talent! And all with his face on display, a grotesque vision in the presence of an angel's voice? What cruel trick was this...or dare he believe it was some miracle sent by a God whose hand had only offered brutality in his miserable life?

The fool he would be to dare believe it...and yet...

He watched, unable to look away, as she tossed his mask aside and moved once more to close the distance between them. This time, her steps were quicker and with purpose, no longer the curious child of not so long ago, but a woman. A woman he loved...as much as he was able to love, anyway. A woman he desired with every fiber of his being. A woman who held him trapped in suspended confusion, unable to embrace this moment either as a sliver of perfect reality or else hold heavy in his heart that he would soon awaken yet again from a cruel dream.

Erik shook slightly, acutely aware of her hands upon his chest while she closed what little space remained. She sang of flames consuming them, body and soul. Her touch alone was fire. What wonder would it be to feel such a touch upon flesh marred with scars, nearly as grotesque and distorted as his face. What wonder would it be to have her eyes look upon him every single moment of every day with such adoration and desire, as though he were as perfect and whole as her Vicomte.

He dared to set his lips, malformed and distorted as they were, to hers in a soft and tender display that barely offered a taste of the true passion he longed to thrust upon her. Yet even so, the gentleman he must be. Not the monster, never the monster. The Vicomte, after all, would only offer tenderness and half-hearted passion at best. He had assaulted her enough with his music; to do so with his touch would have been an unthinkable crime. An unforgivable sin.

His hands shook as he set them upon her, his touches clumsy in their feigned knowledge of a compassionate caress. His lips ached with the restraints he forced upon them, hungering to taste her and learn the texture of her lips, the warm cavern of her mouth...but never would such knowledge be his, that much he was sure of. Such an embrace would have been improper in its entirety, and far be it for him to appear improper...uncivilized. A demon, a monster, and devil. Were those not the words her precious Vicomte had bestowed upon him that night?

Words she had taken as her own. Titles she had given him in turn.

He tried to force such bitter thoughts aside, but to little avail. Worse yet, her hands suddenly set against his chest, pushing with enough persistence to silently communicate her desire to break the embrace. Her lips drew back from his, and when he met her gaze it was no longer that of adoring desire, but confusion and—more importantly—what he could only interpret as disgust.

Reality struck with a white-hot suffering that threatened to split him apart, head to toe. Her eyes...he knew that expression. Knew it and cursed it. The hypnotic lull of his voice had cast its spell upon her mind once before, and it had done so yet again. Yet each time, the curse had been broken. Shattered when music itself came to an end, and so it had done once more. What aspect of his cursed life had ever earned him this kind of torment—to forever be damned to only taste teasing moments to call her his own, but never fully hold claim to her heart. A monster would never be fit to know such bliss. Only a man. A man perfect and while. A man like the Vicomte.

Abruptly he pushed her against the wall, fingers digging down into her flesh through the meager protection of silk. She winced visibly, beginning to shake under his fierce hold. Tears surfaced to her slick blue depths. Tears he resented and relished all at once. Let her cry now that she'd fallen away from the intoxicating high of his music and crumpled into the cold reality that plagued their lives and forever poisoned their relationship. He almost wished the damn Vicomte had replaced her ring, or given her some other fine trinket of ownership, just so he could rip it away and crush it within his palm. Bruise her throat in the process. Cut her with the sharp links of a broken chain. Anything to inflict some fraction of the pain upon her that she had thrust upon him.

"Remembering who I am, Christine?" he snarled, eyes dark and smoldering with many things, the purest among which was hatred. "Don't be shy...let yourself cry. Let yourself cry now that you've realized it was the monster's lips you so willingly kissed, and not your Vicomte's. Go on...cry. _Cry!_" he shook her viciously, and dark curls swirled loose against her shoulders and brushed over his hands. How sweet it would have been to learn the silken feel of those tresses within his hold. How bitter it was that he never would.

"Cry, Christine!" he hissed, tightening his grip ever more and watching her wince yet again. "If I am worthy of nothing else, then at least let me call your tears my own! Your damn Vicomte gets everything else of you—your kiss, your laugh, your smile...but he'll never have your tears. And why would he?" he gave a low and humorless laugh, "Why would he ever have your tears? What cause does he give you to cry? Only the Opera Beast has that honor...isn't that right?"

"Erik," she whispered, her hand lifting to touch his shoulder, "please..."

"Please _what_?" he spat, crushing her flat to the wall and likely leaving dark bruises along her spine, "Beg me, Christine...beg for mercy and receive none in return! Why should I ever give you mercy when you have shown me none? You ignorant child and your wicked games! You play with my affections and what little sanity I still possess, coming to me of your own free will and letting me taste the joy of your voice, only to rip away from me in disgust yet again."

He fell silence, and then his eyes grew dark and fierce with a rage more primal than human. "Since you have so willingly placed yourself in the monster's hold," he whispered, closing all five fingers around her arms and drawing her forward, "then allow me to give you just what you came for, Christine. I grow weary of playing the gentleman when it is clear I will never live up to your expectations. So then, the monster I will be."

Once again, he learned the feel of her kiss, but this time with brutal intensity that crushed her mouth to his and brought her curves flush to his skeletal form. His fingers half-tore the sleeves of her dressing gown, relishing the feel of seams snapping apart under his grip and baring inches of smooth flesh. Warm. Flawless. No longer content to ask permission, he tore his mouth from hers and set a rough kiss to her naked shoulder. Her skin carried the scent of lilies and fresh soap. Clean. Pure.

"Face your reality, Christine," he breathed into the curve of her throat, deliberately setting his mangled features to her skin and learning the feel of unblemished skin. Learning and savoring even for only one moment. "I am the monster you have made me out to be, and this is the price you must pay for testing fate. Forget dreams. This is reality."

She surprised him, suddenly grabbing his shoulders and putting some small space between them so she could meet his eyes. Her gaze was sharp and clear, lacking any fog of confusion or grimace of disgust. Even when he moved to claim her again, she kept her hands firm, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Then let this be _our_ reality." she whispered. "Not your idea of reality, and not my broken dreams. Just let it be reality for once."

"Then you prefer the monster, do you?" Erik growled quietly, "Some sweet reality this is then, Christine...the innocent princess stolen away by the murdering Phantom to be accosted once more by his bloodstained hands. What game are you playing now, Christine? Tell me before I have to force it from you."

"No more games!" her outburst was unexpected by both; even she looked surprised to hear such a sound from her lips, "No more games, no more pretend or make-believe, Erik...and no more dreams."

"No more dreams?" he repeated, mocking her, "Why ever not, Christine? Are dreams not the very stuff of your blissfully ignorant existence? Continue living in your dreams, Christine...the dreams your Vicomte can give you."

"You speak of the dreams he gives me...the dreams in which I live." Christine whispered, never once breaking away from his smoldering gaze, "What of the dream in which _you_ happily live, Erik?"

He paused, confusion slowly seeping to the surface and cracking, though not fully obliterating, the anger, "What are you talking about?"

"This dream in which you are the tender lover." She replied, her body shaking and her eyes bright. Determined. No longer the timid child or uncertain girl. "The compassionate and soft-spoken man filled only with adoration. A man who is civilized and restrained in his passions. But we cannot live in a dream any longer, Erik, and we shouldn't have to."

"And yet we must, Christine." His eyes burned once again, "The reality is too potent for your fragile heart to accept, is it not?"

"Reality," she repeated quietly, and he was startled to see the spark of temper gleam forth from her sapphire depths, "Reality, Erik? I will tell you about reality—_our reality_. You try to play the tender lover so I will think you no different from the Vicomte, but you are _not_ Raoul and you never will be. You are Erik, a man who exists with the fire of passion in his veins and knows carnal hunger for the flesh of the one you love. I did not come to you desiring or imaging Raoul; I came for _you_. I came for my Erik. Hurt me if you must, but at least in my pain and suffering I will know _your_ touch, one that comes from you and _only you_."

Anger was shattered and left as only a fragmented concept of itself lingering within his heart. Desire was the weapon to break Rage and its leeching grasp on his heart, and in itself Desire was a far more potent infection than Anger had ever been before. He could scarcely recall just why he had tasted such fury before, and only her passing mention of the Vicomte served as a bitter reminder. But to speak of her promised one so flippantly, and to have a confession that her purpose had been to see him all along...what use did he have for his maddening temper now? Only to fuel the consuming hunger splitting him at the seams and steadily shattering what little control he still possessed.

She called for Erik. She would have him.

* * *

><p>Suffering should be, by all laws of civil humanity, a punishment for the victim and a crime perpetrated by the offender. To inflict any injury upon a vulnerable human form, perhaps especially one as fragile as hers, ought to be a sin. Or maybe the greater sin was when the supposed victim not only endured such abuse, but arched her body toward the source of it, clutched with yearning fingers at the one inflicting it, and cried out for want of it.<p>

A sin...yes, it was most assuredly a sin.

Christine pressed her cheek tightly upon his temple, the skin wet and heavy from tears that had been shed and were continuing to be shed. Her fingers tangled in his thin hair, curling against his skull and bringing his lips back to hers. This kiss could not be mistaken for one of Raoul's tender gestures, not when the lips giving the kiss were swollen, malformed and distorted, and the kiss was reckless, not entirely with skill but compensating with the delirious sense of passion which fueled the embrace. This was Erik...her Erik.

Her sounds had initially been of pain as he stole virginity from her without hesitation, and occasionally a little yelp or cry might escape whenever he became too rough in his movements. And yet for as senseless as this whole affair was, her suffering did not go without notice. Erik would become tender and slow his pace. Brush his fingertips along her cheek and wipe away the tears. Kiss her brow. Tenderness coupled with the brutal and consuming feel of desire as it pulsed within her, around her, against her. The line between pleasure and pain was blurred, leaving only a broken comprehension of the difference when it had previously been so clear.

"Erik..." his name was a choked whisper, lost against the chill of his lips and the heat of his kiss. Her body trembled again as he found greater depth within her. The new sensation left her writhing upon a floor shielded only by the tattered remains of her gown, torn by a fit of pure muscular rage. Both legs slowly lifted to form twin peaks on either side of his skeletal form, tucking and cradling him against her until there existed no space between them, only completion. True, honest completion.

"Damn you, Christine..." he hissed, clutching at her desperately even as he cursed her and all that she had done to his heart and mind, "Damn you for being nothing more than my eternal punishment for desiring some taste of heaven in these pits of hell."

"I have become only what you've made me." Christine whispered, arching herself toward him and curling her limbs around him. Wanton. Shameless. "You would damn your own creation?"

"Infinitely," Erik agreed, driving deeper inside her, perhaps to punish her or to pleasure her—he wasn't sure anymore. "A cruel sense of humor lingers within God's heart—to grant me perfection in my own creation and then allow her to fester within what remains of my heart. You have brought me to madness, Christine, invoked the most sadistic form of punishment upon me...and my only true crime was loving you."

She fell silent for a long minute, slowly resting her cheek against his—smooth flesh to mangled scars and bone. Then, she turned to set a kiss to his face. The face she'd once run from. The face she had condemned with ignorance. A face he used regularly as a weapon, striking fear into hearts so as to protect his own. A face that reflected the true image of his soul—broken and shattered by devastation, scarred and butchered by cruelty.

A face...nothing more than a face.

"Ignorance can turn to understanding," she breathed, pressing her lips more firmly against his, "Terror to compassion...fear to love."

_Love_...the word was like some cruel trick, just one more to add upon the mounted pile that surmounted the pitiful nature of his misbegotten life. Christine, his Christine...love him? A foolish fancy and an even crueler dream. The very concept of masochism.

And yet...

"Look at me," he whispered, perhaps too low for her to properly hear. When she did not comply, he drew back and grasped her face in hand, "_Look at me_, Christine! Look upon this face! You uncovered it once in your childish curiosity and consequently fled in ignorance. Now you come to uncover it yet again, this time under the claim of resolve and desire. And love. Love, if I even dare believe such words from your lips."

"You have every right to doubt me, Erik," she answered, shaking slightly. Pleasure was cruelly within her grasp, and yet denied to her so long as he saw fit to keep her at bay. "But I beg you to not do so."

"Convince me otherwise," his voice was little more than a whisper, low and dark, and yet the fraying thread of hope clung desperately to every word. "Look at me, Christine. Look at my face and tell me you love me."

His face...but his face was only an image of exterior damage that had been in existence since his birth. The true distortions...those were deeper. A vast multitude of scars that lay upon his heart and soul, invisible yet so deeply entrenched that they had left permanent injury that would never fully be healed. Always he would fear to completely trust her, especially with the memory of her betrayals that would always linger between them. Time, contrary to popular belief, did not and could not heal all wounds. Perhaps in time, his heart would mend under the bandaging of emotional scar tissue, and he could feel whole again. But the heart would never be whole. Just like his body, pressed bare and naked to hers so that she could feel each and every injury ever inflicted upon him, he would only scar. Mend but never fully heal.

But he wouldn't be left to mend himself alone...not again.

Christine slowly brought her hands to cup his face, and the touch visibly shook him. His long and chilled fingers curled around her wrists, clutching tenderness to features that had never been granted such a caress. In the midst of such violent passion, such a touch seemed not only absurd but also out of place. Why would he ever deserve such compassion from her heart, let alone from her hands and—oh God, her lips. She was kissing his face. Firm and deliberate kisses spreading slowly across his mangled features and igniting Desire anew, banishing doubt from his mind and leaving him desperate for both her satisfaction and his own.

His reinvigorated movements left her dizzy and filled with a warmth that blossomed from her core to the tips of her fingers and toes, and finally seeping its cloud of delight through her senses and leaving no rational thought intact. All that mattered was him, and the way he was touching her, and the fact that he was touching her. This was a betrayal of the greatest magnitude to Raoul, and worse yet that she couldn't find herself to care.

And yet she _should_ have cared. Raoul was tender and compassionate...his heart nearly everything Erik's could not be, for his was not a past marred with tragedy and cruelty. She would never need fear Raoul's temper, or the lingering torment of his past, or...

The sparse vestiges of coherent thought were abruptly lost in the wake of something building within her. Something steadily forming with such force and power that it not only startled her...it frightened her. It terrified her. It was something she'd never tasted before. Something that was threatening to rip her apart at the seams and completely destroy every last piece of her innocence, her composure...and her sanity.

"Erik..." she whispered, voice weak and barely audible. Her nails bit down into his shoulders and drew blood. Her body quaked as tears seeped downward once more, leaving visible stains that pooled at the base of her jaw and fell upon his fingers as they caught each and every one.

Her lips trembled, but she fought to meet his gaze even through the blinding sheen of cold tears. "I love you. I truly, deeply, honestly...love you."

Whatever had been building inside her shattered, and she was gone. Lost to the consuming power of Desire...and Love.

Sense slowly returned to her after what seemed a near eternity, and she became acutely aware of his fingers tracing down her cheeks and shoulders. Gestures that seemed too deliberate to be simply absent-minded caresses in the aftermath of passion. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him and found his expression solemn.

"Erik...?" she whispered, uncertain of what to expect from him now. Uncertain of what to expect from anything.

"You had cuts," Erik said quietly, tracing along her cheek again, "When the chandelier fell...I knew it wouldn't hit you, but I forgot about the glass. It shattered everywhere. You were cut...so many cuts. I might as well have taken a blade to your skin and marred you myself." He was shaking, and she could see the sheen of tears in his eyes, "God, Christine...forgive me. Forgive me, please."

Tears gathered at the seams of her eyes, spilling yet again as she blinked. An apology. A symphony of tenderness and compassion in little more than a single whisper. A lifetime of suffering and anguish left upon his heart, and yet still he could offer a plea for forgiveness. And in his plea, had he not offered her forgiveness as well?

Her answer was silent, setting a kiss to his lips with her fingers tracing his scars with a lover's caress. A grant of forgiveness and a plea for him to do the same. Long moments passed in silence, with only the soft rhythm of breathing to echo throughout the cavern of his underground home. The lull of his heartbeat resounded against her ear when she tucked herself against his throat. A symphony in and of itself.

A smile curved her lips, and she slowly kissed his pulse. "I do forgive you."

Erik released a shuddering sigh of relief, curling his fingers in her silken locks. They felt wonderful in his touch. They were paradise against his face. The most innocent and simple touches a man could receive, and he was receiving them. She was letting him take them. Claim them for his own. Without permission. Without condition.

Christine's lips brushed along his temple, grazing the thin and broken hairline before moving back down to his ear. Her fingers idly traced a few of his many scars, lingering along his shoulders before sliding downward to grasp his hands. Their fingers fell entwined beside her curls. A subtle gesture. An unspoken promise. A silent vow.

"Share with me one love," she whispered, looking into his eyes without waver, "one lifetime." A finger brushed along the sunken casing of his right eye. His hand reached up to claim hers in a careful hold, not daring to believe this moment was transpiring while wholly begging for it to be true. Shaking, he slowly found his voice and dared to respond.

"Say the word," he kissed the tender skin of her wrist, feeling the soft beat of her pulse against her lips, "and I will follow you."

A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. It was a soft, sweet, and unspeakably beautiful smile...and it broke his heart. It was a smile meant to be radiant and wholesome, but it looked broken. Broken and a little frightened. But still true. Still honest. Still beautiful.

"Share each day with me," she brought her brow to rest on his, her nose brushing lightly along the gaping hole set in the center of his face, "each night...each morning. Each moment that transpires, good and bad. Repeat them all. Without doubt." Her lips kissed his forehead. "Without fear." His cheek. "Without regret."

Her lips found his. A lover's kiss. Soft and tender. Rich with promises. He nearly wept at the feel of it.

"Love me, Christine," he begged in a whisper, never drawing his lips from hers, "Love me and teach me how to love you, just as you deserve. Teach me how to become a man you can love."

She only smiled, curling her arms around him and tucking mangled features to her breast. Her heart beat against his ear, the perfect partner to the rhythm of his own heart. A duet. A strange duet. Their strange duet. A song no one else could understand, but it was still theirs. Forever.

"You already are, Erik." Christine murmured, "You already are."


End file.
